


The Scheme at Bletchley

by GraceEliz



Category: Othello - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, American Cassio, British Typical Swearing and Attitude, Everyone Wants To Run Rod Over, F/M, Gen, Italian Desdemona, Loving Iago/Emilia, Setting - London, Welsh Iago and Emilia, it's the only thing Cassio and Iago will ever agree on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24166393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraceEliz/pseuds/GraceEliz
Summary: If he plays the keys, sets the tune, keeps all the players moving how he desires them to - he and Emilia could come out of this very well indeed, with only minimal damage to Desdemona, and hopefully a vast upsurge in the depth of his pockets. After all, he's got many plans for when the damned War ends.
Relationships: Desdemona/Othello, Emilia/Iago
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	The Scheme at Bletchley

**Author's Note:**

> This will follow Iago's pov, which means you probably need at least passing summaries of each act. I've tried to stay loyal to the play original characterisatiom but Iago is such a fun character to get into, definitely my favourite, I detest him.

"Fine then," sniffs the rich young Rod Burbage as he stumbles over the pothole in the pubside curb, "but I take insult that you - who holds my purse-strings - won't tell me." There is a brief flash of light across the sharp angles of his face, cast from someone twitching at the blackout blinds behind the pub door, and Iago thinks the dark shadows make for a good demonstration of the dark he knows for certainty the boy holds in him. These rich sons of the hoity-toity upper class always have hidden their rotten morals under fine cloth.

"Bloody hell," swears Iago at him through a minor haze of booze-induced disorientation, "but you'll not hear it. If I even dream of such a matter - well." He sidesteps a puddle, glaring up into the clouds just in case he really does hear foreign planes up there (but his ears haven't worked quite perfectly since the mine explosion, so long ago now). 

Rod spits down the nearest drain. "Told me you hated him," he says carefully blandly. 

"Despise me if I don't! I know my price, I'm worth no worse a place. But he," Iago snarls, letting his very real anger bleed into his voice, an honesty he rarely allows himself to display away from his wife even drunk, "Avoids all efforts to reason on experience and goes on in some long-winded excuse to finish with - mind! - that he has already chosen."

Iago twists his nose up in disgust. Just thinking about the matter makes a knot of fury boil in his gut. That filthy bastard. 

"Who did he choose? A great arithmetician, Micheal Cassio, and worse at that a Yank. Never been on the field, too young for any actual action, knows no more than a spinster of actual warring. Prattling on with no practice behind him. Bookish." Oh, he's getting warmed up now. Em doesn't like him ranting on so about the young man, but he knows Rod will listen and be influenced. It's worth keeping the boy around for his money - even if he's a few drams short of a bottle, as Em says. 

"I was in the last war - been in the Office since before the end of it - I've seen more of the field than he can imagine and the job, the promotion I've deserved for months at least, goes to some pen pusher who probably hasn't even been in the War Office proper! A paper pusher, god help us." Iago shakes his head in worn-soft disgust, keeping keen eyes on the young lad lighting a cigarette a few feet away. Behind them in the pub there is a burst of laughing cheers, and the old piano starts plinking away some barely recognisable tune. 

"I'd rather be his executioner," murmurs the lad, cigarette held loose in lanky fingers. He's too long, legs like sugar tongs, all under-muscled limbs. No wonder his old dad bought him out of the army. That particular rant is reserved for Emilia back in the flat - no boy should be handed a commission then buy his way out with daddy's money. 

He offers the pack to Iago, unusually generous, but he waves them off. If he gets back stinking Em'll have his hide. "The curse of service, boyo; nepotism. Not how it used to be when you got the job you were lined up for. Judge it yourself - I don't need to have any affection, now do I?" 

"I wouldn't follow him."

Iago rolls his eyes in the dark, catching an eyeful of the barrage balloons protecting the city from the Nazi bombers. "Follow him for my own reasons, don't I. Too many masters can't be followed. Too many followers at all, really. Pah," he snorts, "All these duteous knee-crooking knaves who wear out time for naught - then left at the roadside to die. But mind yourself, play the table and your cards carefully, line your pockets and you're made. 

“Sure as you're you, if I were him, I'd not be Iago. I follow myself. Heaven as my judge, I'm not for love or duty, but seeming so. For my own ends, always." He shakes his head decisively into the dark, feeling Rod's eyes on him in the dull orange glow of the shortening cigarette. It's a truth he tells - one he thinks the lad has already worked out - but one he means. People don't always believe him. 

"The day my actions align with my sentiments is the day I wear my heart on my sleeve for the crows to peck the eyes from. I am, simply, not what I am."

"Do crows really peck the eyes from living lambs?" asks Rod in morbid fascination. 

"Yes."

"You know, he'll be well rich if he gets away with it."

"Don't use slang, it's bad for you," absently scolds Iago, because the lad makes a good point. The news is new, too new for the father to know - and oh, she's sweet enough, of course she is, but even if she'd chosen a good one he'd give it a hail of bullets from his old trusty service revolvers on his wife's behalf.

"Knock the father up," says Iago, making Rod drop his stub in the muck, "Get after him, poison his delight. Make them mad, plague him like summer midges."

"Really?" 

"Get on it, lad." The middle of the night type of mischief he's planting thrills that adder in him - oh, he must have been some chaos-god's acolyte in a past life. Rod eyes him nervously, typically pathetic when put in the situation he'd encouraged. "Go on, then, loud and firm, parade-ground-like." The walk is no more than five minutes, but even so the boy needs a firm prompting towards the right house. 

"Ey, Signior Brabantio! Ay-up!" 

If the boy wasn't still looking at him, he'd be gritting his teeth, tearing at his greyed hair. God above, but he has to do everything himself, doesn't he? 

Rod squeaks a little when Iago shoves him into the street to get right under the window. He heaves in a breath, charges himself up, pushing his voice out from his diaphragm exactly how he'd learned in the valleys to summon the sheep, and yells. 

"Awake! Thieves in your house, look to your house! Your daughter, Signior!" Ah, this is a most delicious mischief. Em would scold, angered by his disregard of others' happiness, but the adder he is in his soul is gleeful at the chaos erupting through the fancy houses of the estate. The sash window swishes open, casting a tiny pool of dim light over Roderigo, stood like a bewildered gundog on the pavement. At the aged merchant's demand, Iago waves his hands at Rod to make the accusations. Surely his enthusiasm must be clear in his eyes.

"Is all your family within?" Rod calls up, slightly hesitant. He never does well when put on the spot. 

"Are your doors locked? You're robbed, sir, by God! You've lost the last half of your heart and soul," and if he can't rile up the old fool his name isn't Iago Vaughan, "The devil will make a grandsire of you, arise!" 

From above comes a snort of dismissal; yet his attention is caught, or the window would have been slammed shut.

"Have you lost your wits?" 

"Do you know my voice, most revered Signior?" asks Rod, finally getting his confidence in line with the demands of the situation. 

"No, what are you?" demands the man. 

"Roderigo -" 

"I have told you time and again not to haunt my doors. My daughter is not for you! And now, full of the madness of late supper and overmuch beer, you come with malicious intent to disquiet my household."

The situation is again lost from Rod's meagre control, leaving Iago to wonder just why he thought the lad would be any help. He really should have just run him over with the van back in Cardiff that time and saved them all the trouble of his lingering, but at least he keeps Emilia in meat during this trying time. Trying indeed, he muses as Brabantio shoots down all of Rod's half-made shouts. 

"We come to do you service," interrupts Iago, "And you think us ruffians - you'll have your daughter covered by a Barbary horse! Your grandsons will neigh to you, sir, see if they don't." 

Suffice to say, he's thoroughly riled up the whole street now, or at the least, those houses which are still occupied. He'll need to be careful not to be caught by the officers in Number 32 up the road, or there'll be hell to pay in the morning when he goes into work. 

"Your daughter and her Moor are making the beast with two backs." God above, but if Em ever catches wind of this, he'll be sleeping in the van until the damned war is finally over. 

Brabantio spits from above, "You are a villain."

Oh he must make the joke, apologies Mister Churchill but this opportunity is too good for Iago’s sense of humour to ignore -  
"You are," draw it out, keep them on hooks for a breath, two breaths, "a politician."  
The old man's outrage is like fresh roast chicken and two veg with salty gammon gravy to Iago’s aging lower class soul. Actually now he thinks on it, he's probably not much behind the Venetian in count of years - but, he thinks, at least the years have been kinder to he and Emilia than to old Brabantio. 

Rod is finally in his element - prattling on about a detail he is hoarding as his only element of power in the situation - keeping the old man distracted with a quite remarkable display of linguistic acrobatics coupled with some really rather clever imagery, which gives Iago a chance to assess his feelings. No guilt - some trepidation of the outcome if he's caught - a growing sense of unease about the bollocking Emilia is sure to deal him on his return to their flat - the ever-present worry of her being alone - a wild thrill only caused by the success of a maybe more than slightly malicious scheme. Almost before Rod finishes up his surprisingly stirring speech the aged merchant is calling for lights, muttering about dreams and oppressive dread. The sash rattles worryingly against the window frames, making Rod dive for the road as a plant pot tumbles and smashes on the paving stones. 

Time to flee the scene, it seems. "Farewell then lad, I must leave you. Wouldn't do to be produced against him in a court martial now, would it - that's what will happen if I'm caught here. Though I like him about as much as toothache, I've to put out the loyal flags and all that, eh? Lead them to the Archer's Rest, and I'll meet you there, with the Moor." He doesn't wait around for the chaos to spill onto the road, slinking quickly through the murk that makes up wartime London after midnight, ignoring the women prowling the less reputable street corners, ready to have the night over and get to bed. The search will be on; the father baying for blood; his darling wife must wait.


End file.
